


Statues and Volcanoes

by mriaow



Series: North By Northwestern [1]
Category: Fake News RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bullying, F/M, M/M, metaphor abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mriaow/pseuds/mriaow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rahm and Barack share a room – a cold room – at university, and Stephen Colbert turns out to actually be right about something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Statues and Volcanoes

The thunder falling on the door was murdering Rahm’s ears. "Fuck it Rahm, we’re going to dinner!" he heard Joey shout as he left. Stephen shrieked at them to wait up and Rahm heard Keith lumber down the all as the last of them, and then the slam of the door to the stairwell closed off the noise. The dorm was quiet.

"You’re not going either?" Barack, sitting on the floor, waited a few minutes to pose the question softly, flipping a page of his magazine without seeming too interested in either the question or the magazine.

Rahm snorted. "I’ve had about all I can take for today; after having to physically extract mashed potatoes from my nostrils and murder Colbert yesterday, I am not fucking eating dinner with them again." He paused to rub his feet together, wondering if the heat in the room was actually on or not, and then added, "A bunch of fucking idiots."

"Oh now, you don’t mean that," Barack chid, although he didn’t look up.

Rahm looked down at the top of Barack’s head with what he imagined was fondness. He thought about it. "Yes," he said, relishing the words, "I really think I do."

Barack spared only an admonitory creasing of eyebrows upwards at Rahm before flipping the next page.

Rahm spent two more minutes eviscerating the spine of his law textbook with his eyes and jiggling his leg irritably before he relented, slipping down to the floor where Barack was, almost sitting on top of him. "What’re you reading? National Geographic, Barry? What?"

"I borrowed it from Jon." Barack squinted at an article on what appeared to Rahm to be big mossy rocks.

God, this room was freezing, stupid college rooms made of cardboard and cheesecloth and old recycled carpet that smelled like urine. Rahm dug his cold hands into Barack’s sides. "Oh yeah? And where’d he get it, because if you’re trying to tell me Jon Leibowitz gives a flying fuck about anything other than soccer cleats and UFOs, especially ancient goddamn rocks, then –"

"– He got it from Anderson. He has a subscription."

Rahm hasn’t got any more fond glances for Barack, especially not after he cut him off. "Of course he does, Anderson – this one’s got a fucking shark on the cover. And you’re reading about giant rocks, Barry."

"It’s Easter Island, Rahm," Barack explained patiently, leaning his head to the side to touch it to Rahm’s, which gave him an excuse to hook his chin over Barack’s painfully thin shoulder. "They’re ancient statues."

"That one kind of looks like you," Rahm said, pointing, which earned him half of a lazy smile. It’s actually a fairly accurate comparison, he thinks, wrinkling his nose at the statue. Tall and made of stone, an old mind stuck on an island in the South Pacific.

"What else is on Easter Island? Anything I’d be interested in?" Rahm felt obliged to indulge Barack, since he can feel heat through the thin shirt pressed sharply against his neck and chest.

"Volcanoes."

Rahm laughed, a huff, and entwined his hands further into the shirt at Barack’s middle. "I like the sound of that," he said, voice low.

-

They have a study session for English that night in Joey’s room, which is really nothing more than an excuse to all be in one place again after dinner with everyone from their hall (even Joey, who Rahm didn’t think was actually taking English). "Don’t fucking touch my Whitman, Colbert, I swear to God" "I didn’t even look at your Whitman, Kieth, and get your disgusting feet out of my face or I’ll eat them, I’m still hungry" "That’s because all you ate was a pita, Princess Colbert. Who the hell eats pitas for dinner?" "Who the hell took my Whitman?" "You’re probably sitting on it, Keith, or maybe it’s still under your pillow where you keep it and kiss it every night" "You guys are so fucking mature, you know that. Just give it back already" "I’ll tell you what’s immature, is you all eating my jelly beans the minute I left the room!" "Oh God, Joey, don’t start" "I only went to wash my hands, which was all your fault anyway, Stephen, I said I didn’t want to touch it" "They’re freaking jellybeans, Joey, get over it. Just be thankful we didn’t take your flowery moisturizer" "Shut up, guys, I need to find my Whitman" "I told you I didn’t have it, so would you stop trying to search my anal cavity, for crying out loud" "Oh whatever, it’s the most action you’ve seen since you force-kissed Hillary on Halloween" "Guys, can we please just go over the Hughes poem for a second, I really didn’t-" "I only did that because you were too much of a coward to try, Olbermann" "Bite me, Colbert" "Don’t think I won’t" "You wouldn’t dare" "I would but I’m allergic to insufferable dickwads" "12-point word score for Colbert!"

Rahm had a headache already. Finally, Anderson’s pitiful sideways pleas to Barack had their desired effect, and he cleared his throat. "Come on, guys, we should probably go over some of this stuff, some of us have essays to write after and I don’t have a clue about Langston Hughes either."

They were a bit of an odd group, only together by chance. The other half of their residence floor was mainly occupied by the testosterone and fraternity-riddled pox that was rest of the varsity soccer team. Jon was the lone one of them in possession of a brain cell, hidden under his curls of epic proportions, which meant he was on their side. They had been forced to band together frosh week after an unfortunate incident involving noodles and a late-night fire drill which had pitted them against the rest of the soccer players (Rahm was fairly sure Jon still got shit for that on a regular basis, but figured he could take it). Jon had an intelligent wit he rarely flashed, seeming to be lonely, quiet, and waiting most of the time.

Jon roomed with Stephen, the drama geek with the excitement levels of an epileptic chipmunk, who amid all the squeaking and flailing had had about one golden moment of sobriety so far this year, during which Jon swore he had "practically dissected the universe. I can’t remember what the hell he said but it practically blew my brains out my ear." They kept trying to get him hopped up enough to do it again, but so far the adrenaline, sugar, teasing, and Substances of Dubious Legality had only resulted in widespread hilarity, a few ill-advised physical stunts, and one formal investigation. Stephen was, at the moment, trying to give a bear-hug to Jon, who was half-heartedly swatting him away while dropping breadcrumbs on Joey’s floor and rereading a poem.

Keith was the bad-tempered glamourqueen bear of the group (Stephen’s words) who got absolutely red in the face over conspiracy theories and baseball statistics. He was good-natured enough, but once he decided to get pissed off or moody you basically had to lock him up for twenty-four hours or push him off a bridge to let him get over himself. He was one of the editors for The Advent, one of three newspapers on campus.

Anderson Cooper, the short wiry rich kid with eyes that were, Rahm had to grudgingly admit, the exact colour as a sapphire, was the lead news writer for The Fulcrum, one of the other newspapers. He and Keith had already established a mutual hatred that probably would have kept them at each others’ throats if they didn’t mostly ignore each other. Anderson would probably have been the most 'normal' ('socially well-adjusted') of the group if he hadn’t been stinkingly, obscenely, mercilessly wealthy. Which he was. As earnest and achingly innocent as a twelve-year old, Anderson was mostly serious except for when he giggled, which was a lot.

Anderson’s roommate was Joey B. Joey was the ladies’ man, the guy in the band (Rahm thought it might be called ‘The Rottweilers’ but he wasn’t sure and frankly had never cared enough to ask) with the million-dollar smile and a way of spewing just the right amount of crap with the right touch of sincerity. He was a bit of a dick but knew it, and embraced it with honesty.

And then there was Barack.

Barack.

Barack the decent, Barack the quiet leader, Barack the smart, interested, dedicated, handsome piece of golden shit that he was. God, Barack. Rahm kicked his arm gently, meaning to nudge him, and Barack put a hand on his ankle to reassure him before reading the first two lines of the poem. He paused when Stephen nearly fell off the upper shelf of the desk, where he had perched in his efforts to evade Keith’s advances, and where he had evidently found a stash of marshmallow peeps.

And Rahm. There was Rahm, the ballet-dancing shark whose hair beat Jon’s by a full half-inch. Yeah, thought Rahm, a grin slowly stretching out over his face – he was pretty damned glorious himself.

Keith didn’t find his Whitman book until two hours later, when he was trying to find milk in Stephen’s minifridge and instead found the book under three bags of baby carrots. The shrieking and bellowing didn’t stop until quarter to two.

By then, Barack was fast asleep, his long arm arced gracefully over his chest, blanket pulled up to his chin against the chill seeping into the windowless room. Rahm felt his headache pounding along with the impossible loudness of Barack’s wristwatch. It was too heavy for Barack’s thin, long wrists, and Rahm tried to listen for Barack’s heartbeat in the dark instead. It was a long time until he fell asleep.

-

The dorm halls were a sad, old yellow, and the floors sagged in places they probably shouldn’t have. The lights were always on to light any midnight trips to the grey bathroom. The walls inside the dorm rooms weren’t any colour at all, and they weren’t made of any material Rahm could guess the name for. There was an oddly-shaped stain on the carpet, which Rahm had moved his bed to cover. Two empty packets of cookies sit open and forgotten on the desk behind him. There are probably crumbs on his pillow. The tiny dorm would smell like dust, Barack’s fabric softener, and the unquenchable hope of the young and poor if it weren’t so goddamned cold. "Rahm?"

Rahm makes a noise.

"Do you ever think about… changing things? Like, of trying to be – I don’t know, just something better, trying to... make a difference in things from the way they are?"

Rahm turns slowly to face the directly of Barack’s bed, which he can’t see. "What the fuck is that, some kind of rhetorical question? Have you been talking to Joey B too much?"

Silence.

Fuck it, Rahm thinks. "I think about it," he say slowly, "but I don’t think about doing it."

"Oh."

Rahm punches his pillow and heaves the sheets around, trying to stop his bones from shaking against the mattress. His spine hurts.

"Rahm?"

Rahm makes another noise, slightly louder this time.

"I... I do, though."

Rahm sniffs. "I don’t think about doing it," he says, honestly. "Because I know you do. I mostly think about choking all the people between you and it. I’m fucking behind you on this."

"Oh."

Rahm can hear Barack breathing now, a dry hot rattle that he wants to seal up and hold like an inner flame.

"Rahm?"

Rahm makes a noise, trying to sound more supportive than frustrated, though he doesn’t think it works. There is a long moment of silence, and then,

"...Thanks."

-

The campus all but exploded over the referendum, which they probably should have expected to be big, but which ended up being much bigger. Keith and Anderson were actually united in their opinions for once, but were too busy hissing like angry cats to actually band together. Clusters of people with buttons and extremely annoying voices stood at strategic locations all over campus, and Rahm caused four of them to burst into tears just on his way to politics. Even Stephen cared, though he didn’t do much more than rant incessantly to them about it, no matter how many times Jon said "Well why don’t you write a letter, then," and Stephen decided he’d rather tackle Jon into a snowbank instead. Barack and Rahm stayed up all night photocopying posters.

By the time it got to voting day the entire situation had devolved into mass chaos. Anderson probably would have died from the strain without strict intervention on Joey’s part (though Barack had said that perhaps Joey’s way was not the best way to go about it, and Rahm said they should have just drugged him). There was further mass consternation over the secret-and-yet-not-secret ballots – when Rahm found out he had to write his name on the envelope containing the envelope containing his vote he made two more of the volunteers cry, and Barack had to make many fervent apologies. Rahm did notice his brow crease over the name-writing, though, and Keith had a field day over his editorial, nearly coming to blows about it with the third newspaper editor, Hannity The Prick, in the smoothie line.

Rahm thought he would just be glad the campaign was over, but that was before Keith told them it had passed, and they all kissed more tuition money goodbye. It was their first real taste of democratic disappointment, and the look on Barack’s face made Rahm want to do more than what he did, which was smooth his hands over Barack’s shoulders, feel the tension there, and pass on. They sat around in a circle, Joey passing out beers that no-one felt like drinking until Stephen and Keith snapped at each other, lips curling, and Joey kicked them out.

It was another long night, and Rahm only felt the circles under his eyes getting deeper when he woke up early the next day to go with Barack to the Mission to serve soup. "You don’t have to," Barack said, surprised, though he was defeated by nothing more than the raising of Rahm’s eyebrows.

"I didn’t know they knew your name," Rahm said, and Barack shrugged, none of the heavy weight slipping off his shoulders in the movement, and Rahm felt like yelling at him.

"I know theirs," he said first, and then, "It’s only because I’m here every week."

"Yeah, whatever," Rahm said, and they spent the rest of the day sprinting up and down the streets, leaping over plastic bags and wooden boxes, feeling the slush soak their boots. Rahm shot one sly grin through the watery sunshine at Barack, who met his eyes straight on. Barack spent his last $40 on a portable heater for the room and that night read six chapters of Of Mice and Men aloud to Rahm.

-

In February, Keith got a girlfriend who was entirely too likeable, who they all met when Stephen dragged them all to his play. She was a complete and utter geek, delicious and tall with a twitchy nose. Her name was Rachel, and Joey said he’d made out with her back in October but nobody believed him. She was probably the only one who actually enjoyed the play, although Jon pretended to and Barack said it was "intriguing," which Rahm took to mean he didn’t get it either. Stephen, who normally behaved like a poorly-housetrained monkey on acid, became an actual human being on a stage; hearing him speaking with authority, with facial hair (which Rahm happened to know had taken him the better part of three months to grow, the feeble Irish bastard) threw them all for a loop. Keith even told Anderson he’d written a good article and they had a ten-minute conversation about sources or something before one of them got whiny and started bitchfighting again. They all went out to a bar afterwards and tried to think of intelligent-sounding compliments for Stephen (except for Rahm, who just told him he was full of shit like always, but it made Stephen grin anyways).

They were walking back through the snow, Barack and Rahm a little bit behind because Barack had forgotten his scarf at the bar, when Barack told Rahm he liked some girl and wanted to ask her out. Rahm promptly stopped walking. "What?" Barack asked, stopping to look at Rahm’s eyes wide in the dark, eyelashes looking soft as the snow fell around them.

Rahm didn’t say anything for a minute, and then just spit "What?" right back at him, blinking and stopping the stillness of the moment, his eyes burning now.

"Her name’s Michelle, she’s in my law class," Barack said. "Wh – you don’t mind, do you? I was going to ask her out on Monday, but I’m not really sure where I would take her for a date."

"Why the fuck do you think I care? I don’t fucking care," Rahm said, and he didn’t. "Bring her back to the fucking dorm."

Barack laughed a little nervously. "Oh no, Rahm, you don’t need to worry, I wouldn’t ever do that; it’s our dorm, I’m not about to – I’m not going to make this uncomfortable for you."

"Oh, well aren’t you just so fucking considerate," Rahm spat, trying to sound calm, and started walking again, hitching his coat tighter around him, wishing he’d brought gloves or stolen Jon’s.

"Rahm," Barack’s voice sounded shocked and a little hurt. "What’s the matter? What did I say?"

Rahm didn’t say anything, just barrelled on through the night. Barack was hurrying to try and catch up to him, shuffling through the snow, and he slipped and fell halfway down before Rahm turned and caught him, holding him up firmly by the elbow. The clouds from their breath made angry and confused patterns in the air, their eyes meeting and holding until Rahm finally made a disgusted noise and almost flung Barack’s elbow away from him. "Forget it."

"Rahm –" Barack still walked behind him, long legs keeping pace, and Rahm couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering. He bet Michelle From Law Class was just as tall and brilliant and delightful as Barack was, fuck this.

Barack followed him all the way back to the dorm, hands in his pockets, snow kissing the tips of Rahm’s hair and melting down the back of his neck. It was another long night, and even with the heater going full blast in the room Rahm still couldn’t hear Barack’s heartbeat across the tiny ocean of stained carpet between their beds. He went to sleep thinking about skinny old statues and volcanoes.

-

"The Russo-Japanese war."

"1904 to 1905."

"Who won?"

"The Japanese."

"Led to?"

"Britain signing a treaty with Russia."

"How?"

Rahm paused. "Why the fuck should I know? They freaking lost, I don’t know why you’d want to buddy up to them."

Jon sighed, rumpling up his hair and looking tired. They were studying in Rahm and Barack’s room; Rahm didn’t know where Barack was and he didn’t care. He propped his left leg up on his right, the leg warmer falling over his toes. "I don’t know any of this either," said Jon, trying to be diplomatic.

"Yes you do. Go ahead, fucking say it, I know you want to."

"It’s because they had been all freaked out about Russia before, but now they realised that they weren’t a threat to their interests, so they signed a treaty with them because the French wanted them to. That’s how we got the Triple Entente."

"Since when has anybody ever done what the French wanted them to do?" Rahm knew Jon’s answer was probably right, knew he should just accept it, memorise it, and move on. "Why not sign a treaty with Japan? Wouldn’t you want the winners on your side –"

"Britain was interested in all that ‘balance of power’ crap," explained Jon, and Rahm was going to skin him alive for interrupting, that’s what he was going to do. "They couldn’t let one nation get too powerful."

"Oh, so just try and play little games to crush them all and let everyone think it had little favourites now and then," Rahm said, and slid his tongue over his teeth. "I like that."

Jon kept his eyes looking upwards at Rahm for a few seconds until he was sure Rahm was over it, and then went back to the textbook. Jon’s record player was sitting on Rahm’s bed, and Rahm, bored, slid the plastic sheet from an album cover around under his feet. Jon reached up to get another album down, but fell over when Rahm kicked him in the side.

"What the fuck is that."

"What?" Jon tried to look confused, looking up at Rahm from the floor.

"You’re a horrible actor, Leibowitz. What the fuck is that bruise on your side?"

Jon looked down, pulling his grey shirt lower to cover it. "It’s nothing. Soccer practice. I fell."

Rahm wanted to kick him in the side again. "Bullshit. It’s fucking February, you haven’t had practice in months."

Jon didn’t say anything. He was looking through the records, flipping them loudly, pretending to be absorbed. He pursed his lips. "I fell."

Rahm pinned him against the side of the bed and pulled up the shirt, ignoring Jon’s noise of protest. Rahm made his own noise of disgust. "Jon."

Jon winced. “Yeah,” he said, breathing heavily. "Yeah. I know."

The bruise was nearly the size of Rahm’s hand, dark and livid purple, with a cut, faded and scarred, right below it. But Jon’s upper chest was speckled all over with smaller bruises, blue and purple and fading delicate yellow as though little snowflakes had fallen and scalded him. Rahm pressed his finger to one, expecting Jon to hiss and not being surprised. Jon pushed him back gently and gingerly rearranged his shirt. "So that’s why you quit that fraternity," Rahm said.

"I can’t quit the fraternity, Rahm. They live in our dorm," Jon replied.

Rahm glared at him. "And you’re telling me Stephen doesn’t notice that you look like you just came down with the plague?"

Just then, Jon stopped looking guilty or cheeky or like a smartass, or any of the other usual Jon adjectives. He just looked quiet, his eyes seeming lonely. "Stephen doesn’t see any number of things that are right in front of his eyes," he said quietly, and closed the history textbook. He stood up and left quietly, leaving Rahm to think Oh, and that’s original. Like the rest of us do.

Rahm sat there, leaning back against Barack’s bed and listening to the record spin around in the player, the music too loud for such a tiny room. He pointed his feet, unable to help it, and moved them in slow revolving circles in the air, shaking with the effort. A door slammed down the hall, and soon Barack was slipping into the room, kicking off his boots and shedding winter clothes noisily. He left a puddle of slush by the door. Rahm didn’t look at him, thinking that he couldn’t possibly see him if he wasn’t in front of his eyes, and wondering if he would see him even if he was. Rahm extended his right leg all the way, drawing up his left one, leg warmer dangling uselessly.

"Where’ve you been?" he asked, and regretted it instantly.

Barack looked unsure, wavering with his coat half-open. "The library," he finally decided. Rahm had had enough people bullshitting him today, but the last revelation hadn’t been a pleasant one and this would probably be worse, and he didn’t want to hear Barack say the name and have his face all lit up from it.

Rahm stared off into space and rotated his ankle in the air as he felt the bed shake behind him, Barack flopping himself down on his stomach. Barack sniffed, his nose still cold from outside, and Rahm slowly stretched his leg out again, turning the other one to touch his toes to his knee, and then slowly lengthened it, turning his leg in a perfect circle, muscles quivering. "What’s that called?" Barack asked.

"A rond de jambe en l’air," Rahm said.

He brought his toes back to point at his knee, concentrating intensely. There’s no room to do this in here standing up. Slowly, he stretched the leg back out again. "What about that?"

"A developpé," Rahm said.

"Do that – what’s that one, you said – ‘step of the drunk,’ or something."

Rahm smirked.

"You were making that up," Barack accused.

"I was not," Rahm said. "Ask Andy, he speaks French."

"He actually does?" Barack looked puzzled, and then embarrassed, flushing a deep red. "I thought that was – a... metaphor. For something."

Rahm threw back his head against that bed and laughed, his legs falling back to the carpet. He couldn’t stop laughing, the sound filling the room. He looked back over his shoulder to where Barack was still looking sheepish, and then said, wheezing, "Fuck it," and clambered up next to him.

Barack looked tired, felt tired, was tired of Rahm scowling at him from the corner of the room, and pushed his shoulder against Rahm in trying to tell him the answer to a question Rahm refused to ask. Instead, he said, "how’s the history coming?"

Rahm ignored him, and said instead, "Tell me something."

"Like what?"

"I don’t fucking know, Barry, one of your magazine stories or something," Rahm said, and Barack flipped over to lie on his back, contemplating the waterstained ceiling for a few minutes.

The he said, "Easter Island was first settled by people from Hawaii. They’ve got lots of horrible history, all kinds of things - slave raids, civil war. They’ve had lots of famines, and... plagues."

Rahm thumped his head against the pillow, thinking of Jon’s dark plague bruises and aren’t they all in famine, really, starved for plenty of things, only some of which have names. "There was an intricate class system on the island, and this sort of god king who ruled over them all."

The record stopped playing abruptly, with only the loud warm rustle to fill the pauses between Barack’s words. "Then there was a coup led by some military leaders, and this new cult thing arose, the cult of an unknown god. After that came the cult of the birdman, who the people worshipped as the island’s ecosystem failed and crops were destroyed. The entire population was almost wiped out in the 18th century, I mean, between Peruvian slave raids and the arrival of smallpox. Half the island died, and there were violent clan wars between the remainder. A lot of them died from tuberculosis, too. Over 97% of the population was gone."

"Well that’s fucking cheery," said Rahm. "You couldn’t have read me more of the puppy-killing book?"

"That’s why we don’t know anything about them," said Barack. "Because most of them are gone."

Rahm turned his head to the side to look at Barack, his profile raised so his jawline cut the air. "I think I’m failing politics," Rahm said.

Barack looped his legs around Rahm’s, pushing his wet socks against Rahm’s feet. "I’m sure you’re not," he said, and Rahm replied, "I’m sure I am, Barry, don’t fuck with me."

"I wouldn’t," Barack said, softly, and Rahm pushed his fingers against Barack’s chest, making little circles against his shirt.

"Good," said Rahm, and thought to himself that it might have been unfair to wonder why Stephen couldn’t notice Jon’s bruises when Barack didn’t notice his, either. Rahm pushed his nose, which is freezing, into Barack’s warm neck. "Mmm. I have an idea."

Barack chuckled, vibrating against Rahm. "This can’t be good."

"How about you tell me more about the volcanoes?" Rahm said, pressing his fingers harder against Barack’s warm chest.

"They’re extinct, Rahm," said Barack.

"What?"

"The volcanoes. I mean, that's how the islands were made, but they’re extinct."

Rahm pushed himself away from Barack almost violently, swinging his legs over the bed and sitting up. Barack made a concerned noise and put his arm around Rahm’s hips, but Rahm pushed them away and curled his hands into fists.

"Rahm, I’m sorry," said Barack, all gentleness, probably still thinking he’s talking about the fucking volcanoes, and Rahm wishes Barack would get angry for once in his fucking life.

"I can’t."

Rahm tried very hard not to choke. "I can’t," he says, and turns to stone again.

-

The heater broke in March. Barack spent fifteen minutes squinting at it and shrugging, asking Joey if he could borrow his pliers before deciding that he didn’t know how to fix it anyway. "You spent $40 on that piece of shit," Rahm told him, and Barack remarkably didn’t seem too shaken up about it. "I know," he said calmly, and while Rahm amused himself kicking the thing, he went back to work on his essay. Barack was able to keep working because he made his own heat, Rahm thought, as the machine pinged sadly, and he stayed up for two solid hours shivering because he had to depend on other people for his own heat, had to suck it up and leach it out of them. They kept the heater in the room because they didn’t know what to do with it, and Barack didn’t want to get rid of it in case it had a change of heart and started working again in the middle of the night because it had decided to bless them after all. Rahm harboured no such hope, and the heater became one more empty body in the room, another investment going nowhere.

-

"Will somebody please shut the fucking window!" Rahm bellows, but no-one hears him. He doesn’t care if Stephen falls out of the fucking thing, but damned if it was going to start snowing inside.

Joey had become the hall’s Favourite Person Ever because his band connections allowed him access to a truly frightening amount of alcohol, and they were all celebrating in the common room. The celebration had been called after Jon’s spectacular dismantlement of the TA’s argument on social conservatism during a discussion group. The TA Palin, some graduate idiot who Keith deemed a "hottie," had been forced to sub their politics class for Professor Axelrod, and had gone down in a ball of flames, though it wasn’t likely she had realised it.

Jon, though, trying to pretend it hadn’t happened, had remarked that they were college students; they hardly needed an excuse for a party. "It’s 5:35! PARTY!" he yelled. "My second-cousin’s birthday is tomorrow, PARTY! Jesus, guys – finding a Sharpie in the elevator is excuse enough for a party."

Anderson is already giggling, Keith’s face the colour of a well-boiled beet; Jon has already gone on a rant about Stalin, and Joey has just returned, singing obnoxiously, from the second trip to his room with Hillary from the fourth floor. It was anyone’s guess what Stephen was doing, though it seemed to involve exuberant hand gestures and obscure literary references. Rahm, of course, had managed to restrain himself to frightening only two of the drunken girls from the lower floors. He took another sip of his beer, sliding his gaze over to where Barack sat slumped on the couch, far more than completely hammered.

He seemed to be trying to play charades with Stephen, which wasn’t so much amusing as it was pathetic. Rahm found himself laughing anyway. "No, no, no, I’m Samneric from Lord of the Flies!" says Stephen, and Barack starts to argue that those are actually two people and how was he supposed to guess that before falling into a warm flush of laughing. "See, because I was betraying you, it’s meant to be symbolism, Barack..."

Barack slants his eyes down the couch to Rahm, laughter in the corners of them, as if to say isn’t this ridiculous? Rahm feels his jaw tighten, knows he should smile back but can’t do much more than smoulder, daring Barack to look away, which he doesn’t. He doesn’t even break away when he raises the beer bottle to his lips, his warm mouth working around the neck of the bottle, a clean swallow of liquid falling past his Adam’s apple. Barack doesn’t put the bottle down, but uses the back of his hand to swipe roughly at his lips. They’re still staring at each other, lost, when Stephen collapses on the couch between them, all but crawling into Rahm’s lap. “Mmm, you’re a sloe-eyed vixen, Rahm” he coos, and flops his feet.

Rahm gives him his best do you want to keep your testicles look, which Stephen disregards because he is drunk, slinking up Rahm’s chest to collapse against his collarbone. He puts his lips against Rahm’s head to whisper sloppily into his ear something Rahm barely manages to decipher. He wriggles upright with a last wild waggle of his eyebrows at Rahm, and leaves the couch to leap on Jon like a monkey instead.

Rahm has to sit there for a minute before Stephen’s words sink all the way in, and when they do, he takes another gulp of beer and thinks that perhaps Jon was wrong about that after all: Stephen was a complete idiot, but he wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t blind. His was just a different brand of truth.

The party was winding down. Joey left ten minutes ago with Hillary again, and Jon was leaving with Stephen tucked under his arm like a sleepy puppy. Rahm stands up. If Stephen turned out to be right about this Rahm was going to fucking kill him before he ever let him know it. Barack looks up at Rahm, who extends a hand to help him up, and when Barack stands he almost overturns, falling into Rahm to brace himself. "Rahm," he hisses. "S-shit, I think I’m –" he knocks into Rahm again, swaying as he tries to walk towards the door. He looks up, mouth slightly open. "Drunk."

Rahm isn’t sure how long it takes them to walk down the hall, doors slamming as people retreated for the night. Jon’s shirt and pants are sitting in a mysterious pile outside his room. Their own room is freezing, dark, and clammy, and Barack stubs his toe on the lamp. Rahm knew just from looking at his bed that it too was freezing, dark, and clammy, and his teeth already hurt from the not-wanting of it, another night in the cold. Barack collapses onto his own bed, giving a groan and going "O-oh, that feels nice..."

When he tugs on Rahm’s hand, Rahm offers no resistance and gives up, falling down on the bed as though he had planned it, half-across Barack’s chest. "Oof," exhales Barack, his body flat as a board, and raises his hand to tangle it in Rahm’s hair.

Barack is burning hot, as warm as a house fire, and Rahm clings to him, sliding a hand across him to grip his shirt and turning his face towards Barack’s to place it against his neck, just underneath his chin. They breathe like that for a while, Barack trying to stop his head from spinning, and then he shifts underneath Rahm, pulling his hair a little bit until Rahm lifts his face and Barack kisses it, trying to find Rahm’s mouth with his eyes closed.

There are no noises other than their breathing, and Barack’s skin is warm and his tongue is heavy, and his fingers are still in Rahm’s hair, and Rahm could drink this in forever. His right hand slides up to Barack’s jaw, fingers splayed across his neck, and Barack presses the hand that isn’t in Rahm’s hair against his back. Barack is almost too long for this bed, too tall for this room and too much for everyone around him, and Rahm doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to be this warm ever again.

Barack makes a noise and mutters a swear word, and Rahm moves so he’s only half-lying on Barack, the rest of him hanging over the darker man. Barack’s fingers move to the back of his neck, and Rahm has to press him harder into the pillows, giving up on softness. His hands have slid underneath Barack’s shirt and his tongue back into Barack’s mouth, and Rahm knows he’s a stupid fucking idiot for listening to Stephen Colbert and he still can’t stop. Barack’s breath hitches in his throat and his hands are less steady, fingers fluttering now. His eyes are open, and Rahm thinks that he’s not nearly as drunk as he was pretending to be. “You fucker,” he throws in, voice low, and touches Barack’s stomach lightly before biting him on the mouth.

Barack gives a humming laugh, moving his legs against Rahm’s thighs and tugging uselessly at the neck of Rahm’s shirt. "R-rahm," he says; his eyes would be golden if Rahm could see them, which he can’t, his nose bumping into Barack’s.

"Shut the fuck up, Barry," Rahm manages to growl before twisting his hands tightly into Barack’s shirt and kissing him harder, not knowing how it is he’s doing this. Barack’s thumb moves over Rahm’s ear, making sensitive circles around it, and he touches Rahm’s back again, softly.

"I d-don’t –" Barack tries to say against Rahm’s lips, and Rahm turns his teeth to Barack’s jaw instead.

Their chests are pressed flush against each other. Barack’s skin is almost too hot to touch, but Rahm wants to be burned by it, wants to have scalding marks across his skin, wants lava and brimstone and solar flares. His hand closes around Barack’s hip, fingers pressing in, and he slides his nose down Barack’s throat to leave a sucking kiss at the base of it.

"Are – are you," Barack tries again, his fingers now insistent at Rahm’s neck and shoulders, Rahm tasting his skin. He wants Rahm’s lips again, wants to touch him. Rahm touches his stomach once more, fingers skittering upwards, and Barack finds it hard to breathe, all feeling in his left side now lost from the weight of Rahm. He keeps forgetting what it is he wants to ask.

Rahm is biting again, long, deep bites that are putting dizziness behind both of their eyelids. Barack turns into him, dragging Rahm’s hips against his. Rahm lets out a dark groan and grabs Barack’s chin to kiss him hard.

Barack tries to struggle upright, wants to make Rahm listen. He puts his hand at Rahm’s sternum, and Rahm catches his bottom lip between his own, getting his own moan from Barack. "Wait," he says, as Rahm’s head and lips move lower again. "Wait, Rahm – I." He digs his fingers into Rahm’s hair, curling them around as Rahm does wonderful things to his neck. "Rahm. Please - please don’t fail your politics class. I – I’m going to need - I need you."

"-Idiot," Rahm says, his eyelashes burning against Barack’s collarbone. "Of course I’ve got your fucking back. I’m not going anywhere, I’ve got you. Now shut up."

It is another long night, but for once Rahm is shaking in Barack’s bed, not his own, and the heater stands dented, cold, and silent, and the only sound Rahm hears when he finally tries to fall asleep is Barack’s heartbeat. Barack’s toes hang over the edge of the bed, a solid warmth under Rahm’s ear, and Rahm wants to tell Barack that he’s a liar, the volcanoes on Easter Island aren’t extinct, that’s how islands are made. But Barack is already asleep, and his deep breaths seem to hold the conch in the room, so Rahm says nothing but a murmured "fuck" before joining him, fingers still curled.


End file.
